arm bite

Sometimes when I 

look down at my arm, 

I still see the bite mark 

you had left on me. 

The pale red, 

the slight blue, 

how this was technically 

a 'hickie' but I did not 

receive any satisfaction 

from it. Seeing the colors 

bloom on my white skin 

was not fun for me. 

You took a bite out 

of me, and yet I kept 

all of my flesh. My skin 

was still intact, but I 

could no longer stake 

claim to it. The 

approximate 6 centimeters 

of my arm were no longer 

mine. I have your name 

written on me like how 

a child writes on a foggy 

mirror- and that is what 

we were. 

Children. 

You were a 7th grader 

writing your name on a 

foggy mirror, expecting 

it to go away when the 

room finally cooled. 

But I did not cool. 

and I was not your mirror

to write in, anyway. I am 

not something for other 

people to look at and 

make them feel better 

about themselves. I am 

not here to build your ego. 

Sometimes I look down 

at the bite on my arm, 

and I wish I was poisonous. 

I wish there was a way 

I could destroy you with 

the bits of me you stole. 

I wish I could paint on 

brightly colored war paint 

and make sure no one ever 

tried to devour me again. 

I am tired of being treated 

like some sort of meal, 

some sort of food- I am 

not even a delicacy to you, 

but a slab of meat you prefer 

to consume raw. I am tired 

of boys and men like you 

turning me into nothing but 

some blood on your chin.  

My blood is my blood and 

I write my own victory cry in it. 

Sometimes when I 

look down at my arm, 

I see the bite mark you 

planted on me. 

And I bite it again, but harder. 

This is me taking back what is 

mine. This is me turning the name 

you wrote into a smiley face. This 

is me turning my victimhood into venom.